


Mythics

by Sharky_06



Category: Original Work
Genre: Alternate Universe - Creatures & Monsters, Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Dystopia, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Non-Human Humanoid Society, Other, Rebellion, Rebels, Teenage Rebellion, Utopia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-29
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:27:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26167879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sharky_06/pseuds/Sharky_06
Summary: In the isolated city of Lucet, a world of three factions, the Chimeras, Basilisks, and Griffins, faces an upheaval of power beginning from a few teenagers.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is purely my first draft. I really just want to know of the concept itself is worth editing the full work at the end or not. :)

The curly black-haired Griffin trudged along the cracked sidewalk, head low. Adjusting the straps of his backpack on his shoulders, Santiago peeked up around the street once he reached the corner. No one. Whew. He never really liked other people, especially older people. Older people were kind of scary, even though they were generally meant to be respected. Even younger people irked the sixteen year old. They all kept staring and couldn't understand the kindergarten concept of keeping their noses in their own business. It was agitating to Santiago. Annoying at the best. All in all, people weren’t Santiago’s thing, really.  


Gently rubbing the pink, rough line of skin going from his left cheekbone to above his left eyebrow, he shoved his free hand into his trouser pocket, eyes never raising above three feet in front of him. Santiago should be okay, since his neighborhood didn’t have any kids just getting out of school other than himself at the moment, but just in case. He had been trained to keep his eyes down out of respect, anyway. Eyes down, chin up, walk strong. These three self-assigned rules, all almost a decade old, aided Santiago in his day-to-day life and aspiration of blatantly ignoring his peers.  


Lucet was only well-kempt in the heart of the city. Where all the shop windows had colorful tapestries and pottery hanging on display and the sidewalk was never cracked. A lot of the Chimera and Basilisk population hung around there with their fanciful things, silk fabrics, and opportunity. It was as if you were walking into some fairy tale compared to the rugged outskirts dubbed by the locals as the Outlands. Most of the Griffin faction was based here, working in factories and crop labor, the air thick and polluted. Many of the children were encouraged to aim for working as bodyguards for Chimera or Basilisk establishments or to become yet another soldier just to be slaughtered in an underfunded military. The majority of them never made it outside of the factory system and poverty.  


Santiago always looked out of place, even among the residents of the Outlands. Many of them were Griffins, who were genetically athletically well-built, as this was optimal for their career outlooks, however Santiago was lean and skinny, and not even in a very athletic way. Most people doubted Santiago’s ability of athleticism, and many were already waiting for him to join the lines of overworked, underpaid factory employees.  


Santiago had different ideas, though. Santiago wanted to go where everyone else wanted to go—to work as a protector of the Moderator. It was a well-paid, leisurely job with great hours. The only difficulty with the task would be getting hired. Only those with athletic, academic, and artistry marks over one hundred were able to even apply. The average marks for most of these categories were around the seventies. After being hired, though, Santiago reasoned the job was relatively easy. Lucet was so isolated that no one came around with the sole purpose of overthrowing the Moderator, and rebellion was nothing more than just an old story parents told their kids in the Outlands when asked about the rumored abandoned Wendigo faction. Santiago had heard this story a million times before:  


Fifty years ago, there used to be four factions that lived harmoniously. The Chimeras, the Basilisks, the Griffins, and the Wendigos. These factions were originally based on their ancestors, which came about due to the terrible tragedy of human testing, specifically DNA mutations. These humans gained particular characteristics similar to mythical creatures and these were shaped and passed down inherently, eventually creating the four factions. The Chimeras were children of the sun—bright, creative, and kept the peace. The Basilisks had most of the brains and intelligence, known to be cunning and swift-thinking. The Griffins—Santiago’s family and faction—were protectors, strong and built for combat. The wistful Wendigos were known for their versatility. There weren’t two of the same from the Wendigo faction. The children got to pick and choose a path to fulfill, from bodyguard positions to artisans. They had a multitude of physical characteristics, although typically were built like rods, and they were apparently an amazing sea of pale to many varying shades of dark skin. Like glimmering, multicolored fish. There were so many different hair, skin, eye, and body shapes that Santiago took anything that was said about the Wendigos with a grain of salt. It was almost an unfathomable amount of versatility.  


As the tale goes, the Wendigos felt that the other factions were too uniform, and a widespread uprising occurred against the Moderator. Unfortunately, the Moderator eventually was forced to order the Wendigos to leave Lucet or they would be executed. Apparently so many of them chose death that the Council allowed the old faction corner to stay emptily full of tombstones as a memorial and historical monument, although many Chimeras and Basilisks had no idea that corner of Lucet existed.  


Or at least that was what Santiago’s mamá told him as a kid before bedtime. He doesn’t remember much else, but every night she would sing him a song from a dead language before telling him a story. It was one of the only remaining memories that Santiago held close to his heart from before the age of seven. He didn’t live with his mamá anymore.  
“Yo! Santi! How many times do I have to tell you to quit sulking?”  
That would be Poco, Santiago’s friend. . . .Okay, so maybe friend was pushing it a little bit. Poco was Santiago’s. . .acquaintance. A tolerable honorable mention. Santiago didn’t do. . .friends.  
Obviously.  
“You’re going to give me an aneurysm if you keep coming up out of nowhere like that. . .” Santiago muttered, glancing over at the fellow Griffin.  
“If you actually took your neck out of a thirty degree angle you might see me coming next time,” Poco quipped, arms full of notebooks. Poco was also an outcast among the outcasts. That was the only reason the two got along in any fashion. This was because Poco was really set on becoming a mathematician for some reason, and wouldn’t let it go despite the bajillion times Santiago told him it wasn’t going to work.  
“Yeah yeah.”  
“So. . .how’d you do on the geometry quiz?”  
“I got a solid sixty marks.”  
“Oh my God, dude, you’re not going to get anywhere with only sixty marks. Hey, don’t you wanna be a Protector? How are you gonna do that if—”  
“Shut up!” Santiago hissed, raising his eyes to glare over at Poco. “What did I say about that? We don’t talk about it in public.”  
“There’s nobody even out here, it’s fine. Don’t get your trousers in a twist, doggy.”  
Santiago simply adjusted the strap on his bag with a scowl. “One of these days they’re gonna give you the Wendigo treatment.”  
Poco simply jokingly rolled his eyes, accustomed to Santiago’s attitude. “Hardy har har. . .”  
Silence.  
“. . .Hey, Santi?”  
Santiago took a very deep inhale. “What?”  
“What hurt you?”  
This caught him off guard. “Huh?”  
“I just—I mean my abuela told me that cold people are only cold because they need someone to keep their heart warm.”  
“. . .Are you calling me cold?”  
“I’m not calling you cold. I’m calling you in need of a warm heart.”  
Santiago didn’t reply to that, although the words tumbled around in his head for a little while before sticking somewhere to be momentarily forgotten.  
“Poco! It’s getting late!” someone called in the distance, their frizzy curls poking out of a busted screen door. “Tonight we made tamales!”  
Poco turned to Santiago apologetically. “Sorry, man. Tamales give me vast amounts of serotonin.”  
Santiago waved it off. “Go eat your beloved tamales. My pops is probably waiting.”  
His pops was not, in fact, waiting for him.  
When he got home, Santiago found a quiet, dark house. It was small, like most houses in the neighborhood, as this made the rent cheaper. The living room and kitchen were connected to a small hallway that led to the washroom and the singular bedroom, yellowing wallpaper peeling on the corners. This was typical, as Santiago’s adopted father oftentimes worked late at a local clothing and textiles factory.  
Shrugging off his backpack, Santiago plopped down on the worn couch, the color naturally bleached over time, glowering over geometric proofs, which he absolutely despised but needed to get good marks on.  
After begrudgingly plowing through homework, Santiago lit a small candle and set it on the coffee table, pulling out the couch to make a very terrible bed. Throwing flattened pillows and an old blanket on it, he curled up in the comfortable dip of the alternative mattress with a soft sigh, watching out the foggy windows for entertainment. The only real entertainment that ever came from window-watching were the occasional skinny coyotes that came around to rummage through rubbish bins or escaped dogs.  
Santiago preferred when it rained. It made pleasant background noise and was just soft enough to fall asleep to but loud enough to keep out unwanted racing thoughts. The next morning everything would have a dewy sheen and it would look as pretty as the dead plants and outdated buildings could possibly be. Sometimes there were even little puddles, usually overcrowded with excited little ones while Santiago dampened his socks by accident. Poco liked to describe it as the earth crying, although he never really understood what that was supposed to mean. The earth didn’t cry. It wasn’t even sentient. Santiago didn’t really have a good grasp on what Poco ever said. It got confusing sometimes.  
A scrawny raven began pecking around in a dead patch of weeds on the other side of the now mostly ripped up street, managing to pull up a very sick-looking worm to swallow. Lots of undomesticated animals in the area looked skeletal and sickly. Most of them probably had rabies.  
The front door creaked softly open and Santiago’s father came in, work boots thumping around before being removed once having disappeared into the bedroom. This would mean it was pretty late. There weren’t actually any clocks in the house, other than his father’s watch. So Santiago usually just went to sleep whenever he got bored of window-watching. Sometimes he would try to dig up memories of his mamá, but those were usually cloaked in some kind of fog in his head and were too far away to reach.  
The next morning, Santiago had a chunk of bread set out for breakfast, eating it in the safety of his home, knowing better than to go out with food in his hands. That was an easy way to get robbed, really.  
After eating, Santiago pulled on some fresh clothes from the clothes’ line outside. A simple pair of jeans and a grey flannel shirt with a black tee underneath. He went out to sit on the corner, back against a chain link fence that had been dug up from the ground by dogs or bored teenagers, arms resting on his knees casually.  
“Aye! Doggy!”  
Santiago groaned. “Whyyyyyy?”  
“Why what?” Poco rocked back and forth on his heels innocently.  
“I’m not a dog.”  
“You act like the big scary ones that actually purr like cats when they get pet.”  
“I most definitely do not.”  
“You do. Does doggy want scritches?”  
“I swear if you mess up my hair again—”  
Poco swiftly reached over and ruffled Santiago’s hair. “The doggy loves being pet!”  
“I’m about to bite you.”  
“Nuh-uh. Because I’m your very best friend.”  
“Nice try.”  
Poco huffed dramatically, putting his hands on his hips. “You’re such a toddler.”  
“I’m sixteen—”  
“A very angry toddler who didn’t get his nap. How much sleep do you get, Santi?”  
“Enough.”  
“Do you mean ‘seven hours’ enough or ‘twenty minutes’ enough?”  
“Enough to know you’re driving me crazy.”  
“But you still let me come around.”  
“. . .Yes.”  
“Why?”  
“Why do you ask so many questions?” Santiago deflected.  
“Asking questions is good for learning.”  
“And annoying people.”  
Poco let out a very long sigh.  
“Just saying.”  
Poco shook his head with a little smile. “Anyway, I heard that they were moving Protector applications back a couple years.”  
Santiago perked up at this. “Really? Where’d you hear that? You know you can’t trust that one old guy on the corner for official declarations. . .”  
“No, I heard it from a Basilisk coming in from central.”  
Santiago stood up. “Well now we have to go fact checking.”  
Poco furrowed his eyebrows. “We can’t just walk into central. . .”  
“We’re not going to central. We’re going to the Committee. They’ll know.”  
“Oh.”  
“So come on.” Santiago began walking off, hands in his pockets.  
Poco had to hastily walk after him to catch up. “Are you really still serious about becoming a Protector?”  
“I need to get out of this dump. Becoming a Protector is the easiest way to do that,” Santiago stated, as if this was an obvious concept.  
“I know, but you don’t wanna do anything else? I’ve seen your doodles in the margins of your papers—”  
“That’s all they are. They’re just doodles. I get bored. It’s not a career path or anything.”  
Poco pursed his lips. “I’m just saying. You don’t have to be a Protector. Just because we’re Griffins doesn’t mean we have to do an athletic job.”  
“But it is highly encouraged by the Council.”  
“Well, yeah, but. . .”  
“It would be a struggle to go into anything else.”  
Poco went quiet for a little bit. “It would only be a struggle because of our faction. If we didn’t have factions it wouldn’t matter—”  
“You sound crazy. Have you lost your marbles recently by chance?”  
“I’m just saying! The only thing preventing us from going into other career paths is our assigned faction. . .”  
“The factions are there to help us.”  
Poco dropped the topic.  
The Committee building came into sight, looking actually inhabited for once instead of the usual apocalypse-esque environment of the Outlands. It was also air conditioned, which was better than most of the other buildings and shops around.  
Poco held the door open and the two stepped inside, the cool air hitting their faces. There was the faint sound of the clacking of keys on a keyboard as well as pens scratching into paper. It smelled like stale coffee with too much creamer mixed with vanilla-lavender essential oils. The receptionist was a stout woman who seemed to glare at everything that merely existed coupled with very large glasses that appeared as if they would fall right off the bridge of her nose at any given moment.  
“Excuse me, Señora, my friend and I were wondering if there were any recent announcements in regards to Protector applications,” Poco, ever the gentleman of the two, asked politely.  
Receptionist lady simply gruffly hummed at them, typing away at her computer. For a moment, Santiago thought she had ignored them, but she printed out the latest declaration in regards to Protectors, simply handing it to the two of them before going back to work as if she was too busy for two teenage boys. To be fair, she probably was.  
Poco and Santiago retreated back outside with the printouts, attempting to read them while walking, which wasn’t very efficient. Eventually they got back to their little curb, papers in hand, able to properly read them. The two took a few minutes of silence to do this.  
“Dude you can apply right now!” Poco nudged Santiago.  
Santiago shook his head. “I don’t have the marks to get in yet.”  
“Well which ones do you need?”  
“I need better academic and artisanal marks still. . .”  
“Oh. I can help with the academic marks,” Poco offered.  
Santiago determinedly shook his head. “I need to do it all myself without your help.”  
Poco rolled his eyes. “Okay. I’m here if you need help though.”  
“I know.”  
Poco was quiet for a little while before leaning in real close. “Wanna go grab some ice cream from the truck on the outskirts?”  
Santiago grinned. “What do you take me for? A scaredy-cat?”  
Poco just grinned back before sprinting off.  
Santiago hurried to follow after. “Oi! I didn’t say go!”  
Evil laughter from Poco.  
The two were panting harshly by the time they reached the ice cream truck, bent over with their hands on their knees and all smiles and breathy laughs.  
A bigger, well-skinned man looked up from where he was tying a mint green apron around his waist, smiling at the two frequenters. The small plastic name tag on his left shirt pocket in awkward chicken scratch read: Marco. Marco had inherited his ice cream truck from his father, and although he wasn’t supposed to go all the way to the Outlands, he still made the trip anyway every Saturday and discounted the prices. A lot of the Outland children made the seven mile walk just for some cheap ice cream, which wasn’t a common snack option in the area.  
“I’ll have a chocolate, please, Marco!” Poco panted.  
“Vanilla.”  
Poco playfully smacked Santiago in the shoulder. "Who taught you manners?”  
Santiago shrugged. “I guess nobody, really.”  
There was a beat of silence where Poco was a bit too surprised to offer a response before simply pulling out a small silver coin from his pocket and placing it on Marco’s counter. Santiago did the same.  
Marco smiled and nodded in thanks, pulling the two coins from the counter into a leather pouch that jangled when set down, his pudgy face disappearing to retrieve Santiago and Poco’s frozen treats.  
“It’s a bit hot out, isn’t it?” Poco wiped his forehead with the back of his hand.  
“Global warming,” Santiago deadpanned. “The earth is dying.”  
“Man, why do you gotta be so morbid all the time? Chill out every once in a while.”  
“I’m only stating facts, Poco. Pollution makes the air hot and heavy and the plants don’t grow.”  
A roll of the eyes. Marco reappeared, setting two small plastic bowls of ice cream on the counter. Poco lunged for his beloved chocolate ice cream while Santiago calmly pulled his ice cream into his hands from the counter, the cold making his fingers sting a little.  
Poco shoved a spoonful of chocolate ice cream into his mouth and smiled like a five year old on Christmas.  
“Why do you enjoy food so much?”  
Poco swallowed what was in his mouth. “It tastes good.”  
“Well duh. I meant other than the fact that it tastes good.”  
Poco silently ate his ice cream a little bit in contemplation. “Food makes me happy.”  
“I can see that.”  
“Well then why’d you ask?”  
“I assumed you might have a more thorough response.”  
“Sometimes things don’t have as much depth to it as you might think.”  
“There’s gotta be a real meaning behind everything, Poco, otherwise we wouldn’t do it.”  
The aspiring mathematician simply hummed, continuing to thoroughly enjoy his ice cream.  
A bit of vanilla got on Santiago’s nose and he licked it off with his long, cat-like tongue. Poco was polishing off his ice cream, purring a little, which caused a chain reaction in Santiago. The two Griffins threw away their plastic cups and spoons, shoulders brushing against each other gently as they walked back to their street corner.  
“You never answered my question.”  
“What?”  
Poco turned to look Santiago in the face. “Why wasn’t your heart kept warm, Santi?”  
Santiago stared off into the skyline. There were a few beats of heavy silence. “Because someone stole the warmth away.”


	2. Chapter Two — Aurel

Chapter Two — Aurel  
Flowy baby blue silk fabric swished and shiny gold layered jewelry jangled as Aurel walked along a neatly laid cobblestone street; binders, notebooks, and pens in their arms. Hundreds of people walked down the road, sides and arms brushing against others.

It was immensely chaotic and colorful in the heart of Lucet. More often than not, there was the faint sound of music present anywhere from the street performers with their instruments or their beautiful, intricate dances. Shop windows were bright and coffee and tea was bountiful. Students, artists, musicians, dancers, and scholars all mingled together in an interesting crowd, many set on achieving their goals and finishing tasks to reach said goals. Murals were everywhere—if you could think of a place, there was a mural there. All artforms were put in high regards. 

The moderately short painter and pianist shrugged their bag up their shoulder, nearly running into a tall woman with the Basilisk crest on her yellow blouse, weaving through the throng of people as they had all their life. Aurel’s bright red-orange hair stuck up in wisps messily on the top of their head, lying neatly on the sides around their ears which were adorned with gold earrings. Aurel was more interested in flowy jumpsuits than long skirts or dresses, with their Chimera crest patch sewn intricately on the ribbon-like band that ran around their waist to cinch the otherwise unruly fabric. 

Soft air conditioning brushed through Aurel’s hair as they entered their lecture hall, sliding onto a padded bench and pressing a smooth red circular button on the face of an electronic keyboard, the screen lighting up with the keyboard’s current settings. They dialed down the volume, leaning over to set down their stack of notebooks, pulling out a dark binder with no cover specified, opening it and laying it over the music rest, gently flipping through the crisp pages that sometimes stuck together. 

Aurel had been playing since they could coordinate their hands over the keys, greatly encouraged by their father, who was a pianist for an orchestra. Every key from A to G and all the sharps and flats in between were so familiar that they felt like home. Playing was easy. There was no room for anything but the music. The rhythm, the emotional merit, the notes—all of it. Especially in faster pieces. There was no room for doubt or to falter, no time to think about anything else. Muscle memory, concentration, and music. It was a beautiful experience to have. Anything else left in the brain was gone, even if only for five minutes before it would all return in waves. 

“—rel? Earth to Aurel. Are you even alive in there?” A pale fist gently knocked against the side of Aurel’s hair jokingly. 

Aurel blinked. “Huh? What?” 

Blanka, the local platinum blonde who looked like a literal angel, laughed. “I was asking you if you were going to have a party after the ceremonials.” 

Aurel just shook their head. “I’m not really planning on having anything too big. Just my parents and you, maybe. Some food and music and we can just hang out.” 

Blanka looked visibly disappointed. “You don’t want a big celebration for your graduation? No boys? Girls? Anybody? Just your boring parents?” 

Aurel shrugged. “That’s all I want. I don’t want any big extravaganza.” 

“You’re always so low-key. It’s boring.” 

A roll of the eyes. “Maybe I like boring.” 

“Oh I know.” 

Aurel just turned back to their keyboard. 

Blanka rolled her eyes dramatically. “Sometimes you’re seriously no fun.” 

“Says the extrovert.” 

“Says the introvert.” 

“I like to say ambivert.” 

A long sigh from Blanka. 

Aurel simply began playing, adding to the room full of smooth, blocky, and stuttered notes of music. After a few moments, Blanka made her addition to the chaotic sound bouncing around the domed ceiling. 

There was no artificial lighting in the lecture halls. The tops of the dome ceilings were stained glass and the sun filtered in just fine, shining down rainbows of colors into the room. They all had such great acoustics that professors never needed to use microphones to carry their voice over the pupils. It would be beautiful if you hadn’t spent years of your life there. However the first few months, you often catch yourself simply gazing around in wonder at the peach-colored walls and the white pillars and marbled tiling. From the outside all of the sounds blended together in a smooth background mumble, like something you would hear added into the background of a scene in a movie or television show. Except you could clearly hear the soft mumbles of young pupils down the street. It was difficult to miss one of the lecture halls placed at the end of the rows of cheap apartments. There was one hall for every street, which made the bustle of outside noise even louder. Researchers were beginning to report that all this noise was leading to a city-wide hearing loss pandemic. Aurel didn’t believe this was particularly true, as the elders mostly had hearing aids or communicated through sign language, and rarely was it anyone under the age of thirty. 

Idly looking over at their sheet music, Aurel realized they were playing in the entirely wrong hand position, internally sighing and moving their right hand over four keys and their left over three keys, repeating the line of measures they just did and continuing on when it felt correct. It was difficult to describe, but sometimes sheet music felt off before you could see what you were doing wrong with your eyes. It was less like reading and more like feeling. 

At least, that was what it was like to Aurel. 

Blanka, on the other hand, took her time to read through the notes when learning a new piece and slowing down the tempo significantly to read and play each one correctly. It seemed annoying to Aurel to go through all of that. Aurel tended to go through multiple trials and errors to feel out the piece—to really get to know it. Only then would Aurel come out with the correct piece by the end at the correct tempo and a suitable rhythm. 

It was more than likely this was why Aurel was never out of the lecture hall on time. Blanka used to make attempts to get them to go when class was over, but it never seemed to work for very long, or they were too enveloped in the music to answer or even realize she was there. Aurel didn’t have a class immediately after this one, anyway. They had time to stay over the allotted time, go grab some lunch and meet up with Blanka, and then head to their painting and sculpting class in lecture hall 1-B. 

Sure enough, as they lifted their head from their sheet music and turned their keyboard off, the lecture hall was empty and quiet, the only sound filtering in were sounds from the outside. Aurel closed their music binder and intricately fit it in their bag, slinging it over their shoulder and onto their back in one smooth motion, gently pushing the bench underneath the keyboard before heading out, shoes making a light tapping sound that echoed through the slightly-chilled air. 

The warmth of the sun as Aurel stepped outside chased away their goosebumps, and the light breeze played with their tuft of bedhead. They began weaving through the busied streets that were beginning to smell like warm, overpriced food as the food carts began to wake from their slumber for lunch. Aurel’s stomach growled in response, and they headed off to find their best friend since preparatory school. 

Blanka was seated at their usual table outside with a pale yellow attached umbrella, her lunch all laid out in neat little plastic containers, mostly consisting of fruit, just finishing a conversation with one of her other friends that Aurel didn’t know. Aurel sank into their chair across from Blanka, pulling out a singular container with a jam sandwich inside, which they pulled out. 

“So what homework do you need help finishing before class now?” Aurel asked, already leaning over the table to look at Blanka’s textbooks and notebooks that were splayed out. 

“Astronomy. . .” 

“Well, are you looking at the atmosphere or—” 

There was the collective sound of coordinated heavy boots hitting the cobblestone road and at the far end people began to clear up the middle of the road, heading to the side. 

Blanka briefly looked up from her textbook before looking back down. Aurel strained to see all the way at the end of the road, waiting as the sound of footsteps got louder. As they did, Aurel was able to see a large group of people marching through the road. They were all well-built, wearing black button-down shirts tucked into black trousers with belts and heavy black or brown boots, the majority of them wearing Griffin or Basilisk crests on the front pocket of their shirts. Holstered into their belts were a multitude of self defence weapons. The majority of them had shaved heads or extremely short hair, however some of them had hair down to their chins at the most, posture stiff and unforgiving, chests puffed out, arms hanging at their sides stiffly, feet hitting the ground in unison. 

This must’ve been one of the regiments on their way to report to the Moderator before heading back to the barracks for training before being deployed again. No one really knew where they went, they just had the general assumption that they were going out and protecting the city via keeping the borders closed and only letting importation and exportation trucks through. 

The Protectors passed through peacefully and the bustle and noise of the city returned. Aurel looked back to Blanka. 

“They all look so serious and broody,” Blanka commented, eyes never leaving her paper, pencil gently scratching against the page. 

“They have a ‘serious and broody’ job, Blanka.” 

“Which is why they should have a little fun with it.” 

“Maybe they do when we don’t see it.” 

“We don’t see a lot of things. I don’t understand how they’re so funded when we rarely even know what they’re doing at all.” 

Aurel stared at the fading stiff figures in the distance. “Maybe it’s better that we don’t know.” 

Blanka gave no comment after this statement. 

Aurel leaned back over the table to help Blanka with her homework. *** 

Aurel’s thoughts kept drifting off to the scary display of the Protectors earlier that day while they were attempting to study. It was growing annoying, as it was detrimental to their attention span and the quality of their studies. Not that they were particularly interested in the stylistic standpoint of Van Gogh anyway. 

With a sigh, Aurel succumbed to their thoughts and gently pushed their binder and pencil away, resting their chin in their hand, elbow on the top of their dark, sleek desk. Blanka must’ve gotten to their head, as they were greatly beginning to wonder about just what exactly the Protectors did. Were they training all day? Did they have gyms? What did they even eat to stay that lean and fit? Many questions formed with no exact answers. Aurel didn’t know any Protectors, either, so they couldn't even ask. 

Maybe they were all broody because of things they’d seen and done. Maybe it was simply because their career was tiring. Aurel could only speculate. It wasn’t like Protectors were posting their schedules out to the public. However it was a bit odd for them to take so much out of the general public’s taxes and have those same people have no idea what it went to, other than the basics of uniforms or food and housing. 

Etena, Aurel’s mother who worked as a seamstress, called up the stairs. “Aurel! Your father’s finished dinner!” 

Aurel came from a strictly Chimera household. One that was enthusiastic about cooking no less. Specifically from her father, who was a chef at a local establishment that sold lots of spicy food. 

Aurel’s father was gangly looking, bones sticking out like a model of a skeleton, all dark hair and big eyes, skin pale and smooth. Etena had ginger hair and was stockier than Aurel and Dano, fingers always laced with bandaids from poking the pads of them with needles. 

Dano and Etena had gotten married when Aurel was seven, and they had made a great pair ever since. Aurel didn’t remember much from the wedding. Lots of gold and white, the dress they had been forced to wear that was all frilly and uncomfortable, and all the yellow and white flower petals they were supposed to be throwing around evenly but was actually simply dumping out into small piles. They remembered the string lights and the dancing when the sun went down, but it was all fuzzy and the timeline was all melted into one amalgamation. 

Aurel stood up and began to head downstairs, stuffing their hands in their trouser pockets casually, stepping into their kitchen which smelled of various spices that made their eyes water no matter how many times they were exposed to it. 

Dano turned toward Aurel when they arrived, smiling in greeting briefly, skeletal hands sprinkling in a few last touches of spices before taking a plate from the stack on the countertop and serving himself food before sitting at the table. Aurel followed suit, and after a few moments, Etena appeared from the hall, grabbing herself a plate as well. 

Most of the small talk was made by Aurel’s parents catching up after a day at work, Aurel simply eating and listening quietly. Or they were. 

“So how’s school?” It was Dano who asked the most boring question of the century. 

“It was okay. Nothing new.” 

“I know it might seem annoying right now, but sometime later you’re going to wish you were back in school.” 

Aurel wasn’t quite sure of that, but they didn’t tell Dano that to his face. “Food’s good tonight, Dad.” 

“Thank you. I messed with the volume of paprika a little this time.” Dano looked proud of himself. 

Etena chimed in. “So what’re you planning for your graduation party? How many invites am I going to have to send out?” 

“I was actually only going to invite Blanka. So it would be just us. You, Dad, Blanka and I, and good food.” 

“Are you sure? You don’t want to do anything else or invite other people?” 

“Mom, I don’t know anybody else to invite.” 

“Blanka has other friends doesn’t she? You could always tell her she can bring her friends.” 

“Yeah, but they’re not my friends.” 

Etena stared Aurel in the eyes from across the table. “Are you sure you’re okay with just having Blanka? We could even go out to eat or go do something fun.” 

Aurel just waved it off and smiled. “I want to have it here. Turn on some music and have Dad cook some food and just have fun with it.” 

“As long as you’re happy, I’m happy.” 

Aurel finished up eating their food, placing their plate in the sink and heading back up to their room, routinely closing their curtains, throwing on sweatpants and flopping into bed. 

Their mind drifted off to thoughts about the Protectors that night.


	4. Chapter Three — Santiago

Chapter Three — Santiago  
“Twelve, thirteen. . .fourteen—you can do it—fifteen.” Poco smiled reassuringly down at Santiago who was panting, lying belly-down in the dry, brittle grass, little beads of sweat rolling over his eyebrows and down the back of his neck. Poco knelt down, leaning back on the heels of his feet. “You’ll get there eventually. You can practice.”  
Santiago sighed in annoyance. “I need to be able to do thirty by the end of the month.”  
“You’re halfway there!” Poco clapped. “If you work at it everyday, I’m sure you can do it.”  
“You act like I’m the most athletic person you know, Poco. You do realize that my athletic marks are below average, right?”  
“That’s because you let them be below average, Doggy.”  
“Stop calling me that.”  
“Awww, don’t be bitter, Doggy.” Poco grinned, adjusting the collar on Santiago’s tattered flannel, smoothing it down.  
Just to be spiteful, Santiago popped the collar all the way up with a mild glare and worked his jaw. Poco smoothed it back down again as he walked past, feigning innocence.   
Santiago leaped up, sprinted over, and tackled Poco into the grass.   
Poco tumbled face-down into the crunchy grass. When he moved to lift his head up, Santiago gently pushed it back into the grass with a triumphant laugh, sitting on Poco’s back.   
“You were saying?”  
Santiago paused in his confusion, not understanding Poco’s statement.  
All of a sudden, Santiago was the one being pushed into the grass, exhaling all of the air in his lungs with a light wheeze, Poco sitting on his chest, hand covering Santiago’s face. “You’re only that fast when you’re chasing me.”  
Santiago went a little pink, face hot, sitting up and forcing Poco off of him and standing up quickly with a scoff. “That’s not anywhere near factual.”  
Poco was brushing off blades of dead grass as he stood up and followed. “Yeah it is.”  
“I don’t see you having a speedometer anywhere, unless you got a screen somewhere I don’t know about.”  
“Even in plain observation I can just tell, Santi.”  
Santiago wasn’t convinced, just rolling his eyes. “Next thing you’re going to be talking about my individual walking pattern.”  
“You like to stomp just enough to make an imprint in the dirt when—”  
“Poco!”  
“What?”  
“Quit being a creep.” Santiago gently smacked Poco on the back of the head.  
Poco just rubbed the back of his head before stuffing his hands into his trouser pockets. After a few beats of silence, he had to hide his grin before he barked at Santiago in mockery.  
Santiago barked back with a growl, making Poco burst into laughter, clutching his stomach because it hurt from how hard he was laughing, all bent over. Santiago stopped a few paces away, staring at Poco and tilting his head in question, which sent Poco over the edge, desperately trying to breathe.  
“What?”  
“You really are just a big puppy! Literally!” Poco was gasping for air, a wide grin on his face.  
Santiago wasn’t having it. Poco thought this was the most hilarious thing he’d ever seen in his life.  
“My abuela is going to have a riot when I tell her about my best friend, the big puppy.”  
“Your abuela isn’t going to do anything because you’re not going to tell her!”  
“Oh yes I am! This is a remarkable moment in history that needs to be documented!”  
Santiago glared at Poco. Poco just lopsidedly smiled back in response.   
“I still think you can grow athletically and academically if you actually tried, Doggy.”  
“I do try! I’ve tried my entire life!”  
Poco frowned.  
“You know I’ve tried, all I do is try, Poco! Try try try!”   
Santiago had always tried, but unfortunately sometimes it wasn’t enough.  
***  
His lungs burned. Terribly, miserably, every inhale felt like fire and every exhale felt like a rubber band tightening around his throat, giving less leeway each time. His pace slowed, beginning to lag behind the group of eleven year-olds on the rugged, unkempt track. Sweat soaked the back of his hair around his neck, drenching the back of his shirt and sticking it to his skin. Santiago was certain he wasn’t going to make the mile and a half without walking. His calves were sore from previous long days of running and his breath came out in ragged gasps. Santiago could already tell his pace was slowing significantly. Too slow, he needed to go faster to make the correct time to get a hundred marks. Even just eighty. Something. Anything. Just not a failure of participation. Not again.   
¨Faster, Rodríguez!” Santiago’s physical educator ordered.  
Santiago nodded a little bit in response, the action making his head light.  
He tried. He really did.  
Santiago’s body was forced to slow further, inching away from his peers even more. It was looking more impossible the longer it went on.   
Santiago walked.   
Another “failure of participation” was written in red ink next to his name. Santiago’s face flushed and he stared down at his feet in shame. His peers jogged past him, shooting him weird looks. Santiago walked off of the track, breathing hard, easing himself to sit down, chest heaving. His chest and ribs hurt and occasionally Santiago would cough harshly.  
A gaggle of mildly sweaty tweens approached, walking over to him. They had this odd look about them that reminded Santiago of the feral dogs that sometimes hung around the treeline surrounding the outer corners of the Outlands. Their pupils were always too small and their ears were stuck against their heads as if they were wearing invisible hats, studying every twitch of every muscle, every breath. Those dogs were known to bite.  
One of Santiago’s classmates gave him a swift kick to the ribs, the dirty toe of the shoe digging into the space between the ribs briefly before walking off. “Get up, Decrepit.”  
Santiago winced, a hand coming up to tenderly rub the attacked area, looking up and back at the classmate. While he wasn’t looking, another classmate stepped on his free hand. In an instant, Santiago jerked his arm with a yelp. There was an awful crack and a crunch before the schoolmate lifted their foot off of his hand. Santiago cradled it, looking over to the instructor, who was pointedly looking down at her clipboard.  
***  
Santiago still had the scars, and his hand was a little wonky, but it barely hurt anymore.  
“I know you try your best, Santi,” Poco quietly responded. “Maybe you need to try more than your best. Get into it, you know?”  
Santiago merely stared at Poco, putting his hands into his pockets. He gestured for Poco to follow him as he turned back around, beginning to walk off again. Poco was quick to be at Santiago’s side, looking down at him.   
“What’re you lookin’ at me like that for?” Santiago raised an eyebrow.  
“My abuela said you can come over tonight. After dinner. We can hang out.”  
“I don’t ‘hang out’.”  
“Let me rephrase. We can ‘withstand each other’s company’,” Poco corrected himself.  
Santiago couldn't help but grin a little in his amusement that he turned his head away to hide. “Yeah. Okay. I suppose.”  
Poco cheered and whooped, fisting the air.   
Santiago rolled his eyes, grin softening into a smile.   
The two began walking down the dirt road, kicking the occasional stone or piece of concrete. Santiago could just barely feel Poco’s shoulder brush against his, warmth radiating from him. It made his chest ache for some reason.   
“See you soon, Santi!” Poco called excitedly, bouncing off down his split in the road. Santiago acknowledged him with a nod, turning down his own road, up to the worse for wear house. His father wasn’t home. Unsurprising.  
Santiago plopped down on his couch as usual, muscles aching from Poco’s “training” earlier. Santiago only got up to go rummage around the kitchen, despite knowing there wasn’t going to be anything decent in there. Maybe a quarter of a loaf of bread. A bruising apple. Santiago picked at the peeling wallpaper idly, letting the little papery pieces crumble to the floor among the dirt, dust, and other debris that piled up in the corners. They didn’t have a broom, and Santiago doubted it would get swept even if they did.  
Returning to the couch, Santiago munched around some mold on some bread, not bothering to kick his shoes off, looking over at the oldest clock of the century that hung on the wall above the doorway. Poco always had dinner with his family which took a little longer than when Santiago ate by himself.   
Santiago flexed his bad hand open and closed a few times, wiggling each of the fingers. Every once in a while he did that to make sure he still had feeling in them. He had grown left-handed after his right hand had been broken and he got paranoid that he would lose feeling in it. If he lost the ability to use his hand, he was about as helpful as a ninety year-old being taken care of and supported by their children. There was no way out, then. Every opportunity the Griffin had would be gone in an instant. Not even factory work could save him. He would be thrown probably quite literally to the dogs in the woods that surrounded Lucet.  
After a short wait and a small dinner, Santiago began heading out to Poco’s house. The house in question wasn’t anything really big or fancy, but it was well taken care of, which made a large difference in the look of it, even from the outside. Especially compared to the crumbling buildings and dirt roads and dead grass. None of the windows were boarded up and warm lights shined through the curtains from the inside. It was better inside. The house felt like a home instead of a cold carcass rotting away, the last things alive inside of it wriggling around unwanted. It was warm and colorful and the wallpaper wasn’t peeling and the floors were regularly swept. Poco’s abuela was always home, and the smell of cooked food always drifted from the kitchen.   
Santiago simultaneously despised and greatly enjoyed being in there. It made his outsides warm and his insides dead cold.   
The door opened and a crack of orange-yellow light filtered out, painting the dry ground like a paintbrush on canvas. Crazy black hair and playful brown eyes peeked out. “Santi! Get in here!”  
Santiago trudged inside, slipping off his shoes at the door, following Poco through the halls even though he knew how to get almost everywhere in the house. Santiago always felt weird walking around Poco’s house. He felt like that one missed batch that came out wrong in the middle of all the right ones. The ones that were actually going to be sold. Like he was going to be kicked out at any moment for getting dirt into the carpet.   
Poco led Santiago to his room, plopping down on his bed with a sigh. Poco’s room was about a quarter of the size of a classroom, and was sparsely furnished, but was furnished nonetheless. He had a bedframe and a small dark wooden dresser that had little scratches and the wood was chipped on the corners. There was the same cream carpet throughout the entire house that tickled Santiago’s feet. The walls were painted a light beige that sported a few chips in the paint, showing white wall underneath.   
Santiago took his usual spot sitting on the floor in the corner while Poco flopped down in his bed, the springs creaking, threatening to pop out of the mattress and tear through the fabric.   
“My abuela was just ranting about the Protector applications opening up to a younger group of people. ‘Every year they send out younger kids, turning them into soldiers. Soon enough there’ll be ten year-olds out there, drowning in armor.’” Poco mimicked his abuela, adding a little twang to his voice and acting like he threw out his back.   
Santiago shrugged. “It works out for me.”  
“I know I already asked this, but why do you want to be a Protector? Other than it pays well and you’ll get out of here. What’s the point other than that? You’re gonna just leave your dad here?”  
Santiago blinked slowly. “That’s it. I wasn’t hiding anything. It pays well and I won’t have to live out here and get a factory job.”  
“What about your dad?” Poco reiterated.  
“I’ll come visit,” Santiago lied.  
“Good. You better not just leave me here without visiting.”  
“I thought you were going to be a mathematician?”  
“I am. Well. . .I’ll teach math at a nearby school.”  
“Why’re you settling for less?”  
“Less is all I got, Santi.”  
Santiago was quiet for a little bit. “You have me.”  
“Huh?”  
“You don’t just have less. You have me. When I’m a Protector I can pull some strings and get you into the city, at least.”  
Poco beamed.  
“Wipe that smile off your face before I do it for you.”  
Poco burst out laughing.  
“I mean it. I’ll make you Protector practice.”  
“Okay, okay, Doggy.”  
Santiago sigh-growled in exasperation, a small smile forming.  
The two made a racket, laughing until they were crying all evening.   
***  
Santiago surveyed the array of shoes in his line of sight, from well-worn and beaten all the way to brand new, although most of them were dirty and scuffed. Santiago couldn't tell you what anyone’s face looked like. Not anymore. He only had images of elementary schoolers.   
Santiago stumbled a bit to the side as his bag collided harshly with someone else’s, running into an unsuspecting elbow. He gently rubbed his tender torso, curling his shoulders inward, making himself smaller. Santiago vaguely wished Poco was there. Poco would’ve made it better. However Poco took classes on the other side of the building and they never saw each other in school.   
Santiago never used his locker. He just towed his backpack everywhere. The last time he used his locker he got shoved inside of it. He’d rather deal with the back and shoulder pain than the cramped, heavy air in a dark, cold locker.   
Lockers aside, Santiago couldn't just be early to class, either. If he was early then he was a target for the other couple of people who were early, and the educators weren’t paid enough to be in the classroom until the bell. So he anxiously hung just outside his first hour classroom door right until the bell rang, staring and studying and memorizing every line and detail of his shoes. He liked to doodle shoes a lot. They were mostly what he saw. Sneakers and heels and boots. He knew the shoes better than the faces. Well, mostly. Santiago knew Poco inside and out. He probably knew Poco’s heart better than his shoes.  
Santiago didn’t pay much attention in his classes. He was itching to train his body. That evening instead of meeting up with Poco, Santiago trained.


End file.
